


Christmastime

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Christmas, Dylric, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Christmastime, 1997.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	Christmastime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybandaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybandaid/gifts).



> This is nothing special but I wanted to write a small holiday gift for [dirtybandaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybandaid/works) because they are amazing. Merry Christmas!

_December 24, 1997  
9:00pm_

[ **REB DoMiNe:** you’re coming over tomorrow right?]  
[ **VoDKa:** hell yeah]  
[ **VoDKa:** my parents are making me do stupid shit all day but i should be done by like 6]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** you can drive now… wanna gtfo of littleton?]  
[ **VoDKa:** thought you’d never ask]

Spending Christmas together had become a de facto tradition. Eric and Dylan would spend the whole day doing whatever dumb shit their families wanted them to do, and then they’d meet up and share leftovers and stupid stories from their holiday. This was often followed by splitting whatever booze or drugs they could find, usually eggnog, drinking until they couldn’t see straight followed by their annual ritual viewing of _Die Hard_. 

[ **VoDKa:** i wish we could spend all christmas together]  
[ **VoDKa:** my family’s so boring]  
[ **VoDKa:** byron doesn’t even want to be here]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** my house isn’t much better]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** everyone pretends to like each other for a day]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** pretends they give a shit about jesus]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** it’s all bullshit]  
[ **VoDKa:** i’m glad you’re not boring as fuck like they are]

*

_December 25, 1997  
6:00pm_

Eric is standing at the edge of his driveway with a black backpack when Dylan’s BMW pulls into the cul-de-sac and swings up the driveway a little too fast.

Eric reaches for the door handle, tugging at it impatiently when it won’t open. “Open up,” he insists. Dylan unlocks the car and Eric hops in. 

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”

“Where are we going?”

“As far as we can. Just fuckin’ drive, man.”

Dylan obeys Eric’s instructions. He heads away from Littleton then southeast on a two-lane highway, driving aimlessly with the stereo blasting until they find what they are looking for, some empty park where they can be alone, pretending they’re the last people on Earth.

“Check it out,” Dylan says after about half an hour, gesturing out the window. He drives into the dark nameless park, finding an out-of-the-way spot to hide the car. “Think this’ll work?”

Eric nods. They get out of the car and walk uphill along the dirt path. Shrubs and grass give way to pine trees and junipers the higher they climb. The two boys come across a picnic table nestled between the outcroppings of rocks and decide it will fit their needs nicely.

Eric and Dylan climb on top of the table and sit cross-legged, facing each other. Eric’s reaching into his backpack before Dylan can ask him what he brought. He pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels, two-thirds of the way full, which Dylan takes with eager hands.

“What’s on the menu?”

Eric starts pulling Tupperware containers out of his backpack. “Turkey, rolls, pumpkin pie,” Eric pulls another half-empty bottle out of the backpack. “More whiskey.”

“Cool,” Dylan responds appreciatively. He digs through his own backpack. “I’ve got… um, let’s see, cold asparagus and some Christmas cookies. I told you Christmas at my house sucked.”

“Whatever,” Eric shrugs. “We’re here now. Merry Christmas.” They have no glasses with which to toast, but he holds the bottle up, a simple cheers, and they both take swigs directly from the bottle. 

“Merry Christmas, Eric.”

“I wish we had a way to listen to some music,” Eric complains.

Dylan doesn’t voice his disagreement. The night is quiet and peaceful, cold but not snowy. “Get any good CDs for Christmas?”

“Fuck no. My parents wouldn’t know good music if it smacked them in the face.”

“True.”

They pass the bottle of Jack Daniels back and forth, drinking throughout their scattered conversation until their heated discussion comes to a drunk standstill and they can’t do anything else but look at the stars.

*

“There you are,” Sue says when Dylan and Eric burst through the front door of the Klebold home. They shuffle upstairs slowly, still drunk, boots clomping on the steps. “I was starting to get worried.”

“S’cool, Mom,” Dylan tells her, trying not to slur.

Eric clamors onto Dylan’s bed while Dylan stands in front of the television set, a serious look on his face.

“I guess it’s time,” Dylan says dramatically. He starts hunting through a stack of VHS tapes. “Got it,” he calls. He pulls the _Die Hard_ VHS out of its box and pops it in the VCR. 

“Yesss,” Eric grins. It’s not like it’s the greatest movie in the world, but it’s the best Christmas movie, hands down. Name one other holiday movie with more action - it can’t be done. 

The opening titles begin to roll and Dylan claims a seat on the bed beside Eric. “We can raid my dad’s liquor later, if you want,” he suggests. 

Eric nods in agreement. Wouldn’t really be Christmas if they didn’t get truly fucked up.

A knock at the door startles them. Sue pops her head in a second later. “Do you two need any snacks?”

“No, mom,” Dylan hisses, embarrassed. 

“I was just offering.” Sue backs away.

“Thanks, Mrs. K,” Eric says, and she leaves without another word. 

They go back to watching the movie, quoting the best lines during their favorite scenes.

Dylan bumps Eric’s shoulders with his own, a playful move intended to get his attention. He keeps jostling him until Eric directs his eyes toward him instead of the movie.

“What the fuck do you want?” Eric asks, even though Dylan’s lit and just messing around.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Eric looks alarmed. Dylan’s definitely drunk, eyes red and blurry, cheeks tinged with color, but even wasted, he’s never asked for something like this before. “Are you serious?”

“It’s Christmas,” Dylan explains. “Just… do it. Just once. Please.”

Eric’s face tells him this is the last thing he expected. Eric takes a long swig of whiskey.

“Seriously, V,” Eric asks again, although it’s less of a question this time, and his face is furrowed, thoughtful.

“I’m dead serious,” Dylan whispers. “I just want to feel something other than complete misery for once,” he slurs, a little too vulnerably. “Not… emptiness.”

Buzzed, Eric leans in and kisses his best friend. “You taste like Jack,” he grins, reaching up to touch his own lips. Then, to Dylan’s surprise, he leans in and kisses his best friend again. The kiss is longer this time, and Dylan’s hands move to Eric’s waist under the blanket. 

They ignore the end of the movie, busy with hands and lips and teeth and tongues. When they finally pull away from each other, hesitant, Dylan casually checks the TV screen. The credits are rolling.

“I think I should probably go,” Eric says, breaking the silence. 

Dylan takes a long drink of whiskey until the bottle is almost empty, frowning at the taste in his throat. Should he be scared, apologetic, or what?

Unsure of the next move to make, they both lean against the wall quietly until the VHS tape finishes playing and the screen flows into static.

“Do you think we’ll do this every year?” Dylan asks softly, maudlin.

“ _Die Hard_ or…” Eric swallows, unsure what to call it. “The kissing thing?”

Dylan’s cheeks start to turn pink. “ _Die Hard_. I mean, Christmas… Together.”

“I don’t know, Dylan,” Eric admits. “I don’t know.”

*

_December 31, 1997  
8:15pm_

Christmas comes and goes, and Eric is mysteriously quiet over the Christmas break. Instead of hanging out all the time, he’s notably absent, and always seems to have his away message up on AOL Instant Messenger. 

Dylan wants to reach out, but doesn’t know how to act or what to say. 

On New Year’s Eve, Eric’s status finally changes to Online. Dylan’s hands start typing a message before he disappears again.

[ **VoDKa:** i’m sorry if i scared you reb]  
[ **VoDKa:** i didn’t mean to fuck this up]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** okay]  
[ **VoDKa:** that’s all you’re going to say?]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** what the hell do you want me to say]

Dylan shoves his computer keyboard, slamming his fist down on the keys. A stream of jumbled letters appears on the screen. 

Dylan realizes he does know what he wants Eric to say, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. 

[ **VoDKa:** come over]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** i don’t know if that’s a good idea]  
[ **VoDKa:** it’s new year’s eve]  
[ **VoDKa:** why not]  
[ **REB DoMiNe:** i’m scared of what i might do] 

It’s the last thing Eric says before he logs off of AIM. Dylan stares at it until he can’t bear to look anymore, and switches his computer monitor off. 

Dylan bangs the power button on his stereo so hard the plastic almost cracks. The sound of the Smashing Pumpkins fills the room. 

Dylan flops onto his bed and closes his eyes, shutting the world out. He ignores the countdown that the rest of the world is participating in. He’d been invited to a party at Nate’s house, but he can’t imagine pretending to care. Not tonight, of all nights. 

Ten minutes before midnight, there’s a knock at Dylan’s bedroom door. “Go away,” he groans, covering his eyes. He wishes his mom would just forget about him and leave him alone. 

The knocking gets louder, more insistent. 

“I said go away, Mom!” Dylan repeats, annoyed.

His door opens and Dylan is about to go off when he sees that it’s not his mother. It’s Eric Harris. 

Dylan sits up in bed.

“Hey,” Eric says, hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?”

Eric shrugs in response. “I’m not sure.” He walks into the room and sits on the edge of Dylan’s bed.

“I thought you were mad,” Dylan admits.

The statement causes Eric to look up sharply in confusion. Eric shakes his head, but he still doesn’t seem right. If not angry, then what?

They sit silently, awkwardly, minutes passing without conversation. Dylan doesn’t know why Eric is here tonight.

“It’s midnight,” Eric say eventually, checking his wristwatch.

“Happy New Year, I guess,” Dylan’s voice is melancholy.

Eric doesn’t respond. 

When Dylan looks back up at his best friend, Eric is staring intently at his face. Then he gets a hand in Dylan’s rumpled hair, yanking him closer, kissing him, jamming their mouths together ungracefully.

Eric pulls away, and Dylan doesn’t recognize the unreadable, intense look in his eyes.

“Eric?” Dylan asks, something like fear in his voice.

“I’m not angry,” Eric explains, and something hot, ineffable, pools in Dylan’s stomach after the gratefulness passes.

“I couldn’t tell, I thought…”

Eric leans in again, shuts him up with a kiss. “I don’t want you to feel that way with me… _Empty_ …”

Dylan receives his kiss eagerly, slips his hand into Eric’s, a strange sensation but a welcome one, and feels a little less alone.

“Happy New Year, V.”


End file.
